55

Lazarus didn’t feel like going home after court.

He headed to the Strip.

As evening fell, bright lights lit up, and rounders worked on the sidewalks to pull people into casinos. Watching them, Lazarus was impressed. They could quickly guess if someone liked drugs, booze, or a good time and then make lavish promises of what they’d find if they only went inside the casino.

The few times Lazarus visited the Strip, he avoided the flashy casinos full of tourists. He was drawn to quieter spots.

He drove past the main Strip, heading to Old Vegas. Here, the bars were older, the casinos worn, and the people carried heavier burdens. This was where he felt at ease.

He parked illegally and got out. A rounder was standing out front of a casino called Bricks. He was slim with piercing eyes.

“My friend,” he said to Lazarus, “you look like I feel.”

Lazarus gave a small grin. “You should go into politics with that insight.”

“Man down as much as you needs something to pick him back up.”

“What you got?”

“Come in and find out.”

The rounder guided Lazarus inside the casino. It stank of smoke and sweat and liquor. Gamblers with glazed eyes mechanically pressed buttons at their machines, hoping their luck would change. Or did they? Lazarus wondered if hard-core gamblers cared about winning. Compulsion didn’t usually care about things like that.

The rounder took him to a bartender wearing a colorful shirt. Nodding toward Lazarus, the rounder said, “Get him whatever he needs. First one on me.”

Lazarus sat at the bar. The bartender said, “Got something special.”

He pulled out a red bottle with writing on it in a language Lazarus didn’t recognize.

“Turkish. It’s made with opium. Not technically legal but ...”

He poured a splash into the glass. Lazarus, without breaking eye contact, gripped the man’s wrist, tipping the bottle until the shot glass overflowed.

“You should take it easy. Powerful stuff.”

Lazarus eyed the glass, its contents dark enough that light couldn’t get through. He threw it back, the taste reminiscent of soured licorice, nearly causing him to choke.

“That’s the worst drink I ever had.”

The bartender took a small shot and grimaced. “You know it’s a ride when it’s this bad.”

Lazarus watched the gamblers on the floor.

“You wanna play?” the bartender said. “It’ll be a bit more enjoyable.”

“I don’t gamble,” he said, taking out his vape pen and sucking on it. “Get enough of that just being alive.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

The bartender started to put the bottle away, but Lazarus took it, refilling his glass to the top. He downed the drink and thanked the bartender with a nod.

It didn’t take long to feel the effects of the drink. The intricate floor patterns, devised by psychologists hired by the casinos to induce confusion and hinder clear thinking, undulated. He blinked, thinking his eyes were playing tricks, but the wavy lines kept shifting.

He approached a roulette table, watching the wheel turn and the ball jump between number slots with a metallic click.

“You in, sir?” the dealer said.

He took out a fifty-dollar bill and put it on black. It came up red.

“You know they call this the Devil’s Wheel?” Lazarus said. “You add up all the numbers on the wheel, it comes to 666.”

“That so?” the dealer said, uninterested.

Lazarus wandered among the tables, warmth enveloping him. Soft colors blurred his peripheral vision, interspersed with flashes of light. His phone’s vibration startled him. It was Riley.

“You feel like a drink, big daddy?” Lazarus said over the ding of the machines.

“You need to get down to the jail,” he said flatly.

Lazarus stopped walking and put his finger in the other ear to hear better. “Why?”

“He got out, Laz. He’s gone.”

Lazarus knew he was too inebriated to drive, his vision still blurring and spinning, so he got a cab and guzzled coffee the entire drive to the jail, trying to negate the effects of whatever drink the bartender had given him.

He got down to the jail and jumped out of the cab. He ran inside, pushing his way past the metal detectors and guards. He saw Riley standing in a circle of guards and staff talking. An alarm was going off: the jail was on lockdown. Warden Stuart was there in his pajamas and sneakers. Lazarus saw paramedics rush past with a man on a gurney, red-soaked gauze on his neck as they tried to slow the flow of blood.

The warden looked panicked and was on the phone with someone, probably the federal marshals.

“What happened?” Lazarus said to Riley.

The big man motioned with his head to follow.

Riley guided Lazarus through the corridors with the warden behind them. Inmates peered from their locked cells while guards stood by, armed with stun guns and rifles. The twisting hallways, packed with cells, felt like a maze.

They got to a cell with chipping white bars and bare cement floors. Steel toilet and sink. Above the bed on the roof was an air vent, and the cover was off and had fallen on the bed. Lazarus went inside and examined the vent. The opening was small. It didn’t look like a man could fit through, maybe a child.

On the sink, he spotted an untouched toothbrush. Using it, he swabbed the vent’s interior, then sniffed the brush’s tip.

“It’s grease. Probably from his food. You got someone watching him while he eats?” he said to the warden, who was off the phone now.

The warden shrugged. “How would I know?”

“Because you’re supposed to be in charge, Warden. He was probably starving himself so he could fit through that hole. If anyone was paying attention, they would’ve noticed.”

“How are we supposed to know he could fit through an air vent? There was no way anyone could’ve seen this coming.”

Lazarus gazed up at the small hole in the ceiling. “The next family he tears apart might not agree with you.”